


Temptation

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One time John fails to turn Sherlock, one time it goes wrong, and one time it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/gifts).



Waking to the throbbing pain of his shoulder John thought it was another nightmare, that he was back in Afghanistan again, but as the fog of sleep cleared and true consciousness finally washed over him, the hunger suddenly hit him full force, leaving the agony of his shoulder to fade to the background in the wake of the burning in his veins, the churning rage of his insides demanding sustenance.

This was bad John knew. Beyond bad. He knew better than to go so long between feeding, but he’d been busy, something kept coming up—something always came up—and last night was supposed to be the night, no matter what. But then off course, Sherlock had gotten a break in the case, intent on going alone because Lestrade didn’t believe him, so that left John no choice but to go along because trouble seemed to follow Sherlock.

It had been a trap they had realized too late, and not a trap for Sherlock, but for John. They fancied themselves vampire hunters—novices really—but they’d known enough to have silver bullets and with those and sheer numbers they’d taken John down.

John glanced over at Sherlock’s still unconscious form, his face swollen and blood coated from the beating he’d received before the hunters had taken him down. Forcing himself to tear his eyes away the sight, John took some small amount of comfort in that Sherlock’s breathing was even and steady. At any other time, John would have looked him over, but not now, not when he was so close to the edge of control.

Hissing in pain, John shoved his fingers into the first bullet hole, digging around until he finally found it, and flung the offending chunk of metal away. Oh a good day, he should have started healing soon after the silver was removed, but glancing down at the fresh trickle of blood that oozed from the wound, he knew that he was too far gone, that he had no power to spare. He’d only been this far gone once, freshly turned and left to starve in Afghanistan before being let loose against his own people.

The memories were splintered, piecemeal, but it was enough to know that Sherlock was in great danger if they didn’t get out of there soon. Finally digging the last bullet out, John rose unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the warm pulse of blood behind him. Reaching the door, John raised his hand to feel the edges, looking for any weak points, but jerked back in pain, his fingers smoking. Silver again. Maybe these hunters were smarter than they’d given them credit for, or they’d fallen in with someone who actually knew what they were doing.

John sank to the ground gracelessly as his knees suddenly refused to hold his weight. Sherlock suddenly moved and moaned in pain. A prey sound, part of John’s brain told him.

NO!

John pushed himself into the furthest corner from Sherlock as though those scant view inches would protect him, protect them both. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he bit down in desperation, hoping to buy himself a little time, but from the first taste John knew it wasn’t what he wanted.

Despite the fact that John wasn’t looking at him, all his other scenes were locked onto Sherlock, the sudden increase of heart rate, the sharp indrawn breath as he finally woke and took in John’s state. Then the fear hit, and it was all John could do stay in place.

Then the stupid prat moved, coming closer, reaching out to touch him.

Against his will, John spun with a snarl, hand clamping tightly around Sherlock’s wrist. He knew the horrible sight he must have present, eyes red and fangs bared, yet instead of trying to pull away, Sherlock came closer, sinking down on his knees and crowding John.

“John, it’s okay. Take what you need.” And then he tilted his head to his side, exposing the long line of his neck.

It was an invitation that John was unable to pass up, tugging Sherlock closer, heedless of pain he knew his grip was causing, of the pain his harsh bite caused as his fangs sank deep into the tender flesh was no finesse, no preparation. When the blood hit his tongue, he was gone and he glutted himself on it.

John was barely aware of the tears running down his cheeks, of Sherlock’s touch and embrace, his attempt to comfort when he should have been struggling to get away. As Sherlock’s heart began to race in an attempt to force the steadily deleting blood through his veins, John knew he needed to stop, that he had to pull away.

With a sob and all his willpower, John finally tore himself away, and dug desperate fangs into the wound on his wrist. He’d never done this before, but he knew how it worked. Pressing his wrist again Sherlock’s slack mouth, he waited for the pull, and when that didn’t come he massaged Sherlock’s throat attempting to get him to swallow.

But each beat of Sherlock’s heart was slower, the seconds stretching between them into a painful eternity. Weak fingers suddenly wrapped around his wrist, pushing at him, and John met Sherlock’s eyes. There was no accusation there, no fear or hate.

Sherlock’s eyes closed and all was silent.

Pulling Sherlock to him, John howled.

 

2.  
Once John would have laughed at the idea of Sherlock being a monster. John had known the potential was there, but it had been tempered by friends and family, by his desire to prove himself, to pit himself against crimials. Two hundred years could change a person. The descent had been slow at first, slow enough that John hadn’t noticed or hadn’t allowed himself to notice. Maybe if he had and had intervened earlier then he could have stopped it, could have prevent this.

John knew he shouldn’t have let him go, should have kept him close, despite the tradition that called for separation of master and progeny after fifty years, so that the youth could prove themselves. It was a test set up by the counsel to see if they could control themselves, if they could make it on their own without the protection of their master. If they couldn’t, if they became a danger to society they were destroyed. If they could, they were welcomed back into the fold, holding their own status in society.

For twenty years Sherlock had roamed far and wide, often without any hint of his whereabouts and John had worried. When he appeared on John’s doorstep one evening, John had welcomed him with open arms, not protesting as Sherlock had sought his blood without invitation—he had always been a greedy thing.

It was another five years before John heard wind of the new power that was growing in the world, a seed of corruption that had taken root and was spreading across the map, unstoppable and without name, no hint of identity. It was years later still before John realized that Sherlock was behind it, his reaching stretching further than even Moriarty had ever hoped to achieve.

And John had been unable to do anything. He’d known that he should, that he was the only one with a hope of reigning Sherlock in, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to remove the veil over his eyes and see what Sherlock had truly become.

Until now. He’d heard about the blood bathes, had seen pictures of the children savaged and drained. He hadn’t expected to stumble upon one while following Sherlock, hadn’t expected Sherlock to take part.

John was sick, heartsick and physically as he lost his dinner.

Sherlock was his responsibility, and it was high time he did something about it.

 

3.  
They’d agreed to wait until Sherlock’s thirty fifth birthday. Given their line of work it was a risk, but John wanted Sherlock to be sure.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock would tell him every night, but John held firm. Even the filth and temptation that Sherlock whispered in his ear the few times John fed on him, didn’t make John falter.

Tonight was far from the first time they’d had sex, but as they’d stripped each other with hurried movements, John accidently ripping Sherlock damned purple shirt, it had been different, the promise of what was to come spurring them both on.

They’d been on edge from the start, too worked up for patience and games. They didn’t need words tonight. When Sherlock offered John couldn’t hold back, letting his fangs sink in deep and slow, his saliva blocking the worst of the pain if Sherlock’s moan of pleasure was any indication. Wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, he stroked in time with Sherlock’s heartbeat, not pulling on the wound, but nursing on the blood that surged forth.

Counting the beats, John knew it was finally time. Biting into his wrist, he offered the bleeding limb to Sherlock who greedily latched on, his cock pulsing in John’s hand as Sherlock’s release coated his fist. As Sherlock took his first drag on the wound, John had joined him untouched.

That had been two hours ago, and John had drunk two of pints waiting of them, having pleanty more for Sherlock when the change was complete. Already John could sense the changes, the slower heart beat and lower temperature. He was thankful that Sherlock would remain unconscious through the worst of the change which was yet to come. He readied himself for the vigil.

When dawn finally came, John was exhausted, and Sherlock was finally asleep, a true sleep no longer wracked by pain that caused him to try to rend his own flesh and fight against John’s hold as he’d tried to prevent it. Finally John could sleep.

Waking to pleasure, a warm moist heat around his cock, John crack his eyes open and looked down the length of his body, to find Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the base of his cock. Seeing that he was finally awake, Sherlock moved, taking him on the way in, and John moaned as he felt the head of his cock bump against Sherlock’s throat.

The moan turned into a shout and his hips thrust up as Sherlock’s new fangs buried themselves in the base of his cock. Maybe a normal person would have been worried, but John was too busy having the orgasm of his life.

When he finally finished, panting and spent, Sherlock crawled his way up John’s body and buried his face in John’s neck, licking and teasing the flesh there.

“Do it,” John hissed, fisting his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

John felt Sherlock’s lips twist into a smile before he scraped his fangs along the surface, causing blood to well from the twin lines. John moaned as he began to harden again and pulled Sherlock down against him, so their cocks were pressed together.

Their bodies rocked against each other, enjoying the friction. Each time the cuts began to close, Sherlock worried them open again, drawing on the fresh swell of blood.

And finally when Sherlock gave into the temptation and let himself bite deep, John knew perfection.


End file.
